Dreams of 18(10)

He hasn’t been on very many dates but he does go out sometimes. And every time he does, I picture him with a sophisticated, pink-champagne drinking, lobster-eating woman and it feels like someone’s sticking me with needles or peeling off my skin or making me eat strawberries when I don’t want to.

My nod is jerky, as all my smiles and euphoria go out of me. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

I take a couple of steps toward my house. But my feet prove to be drunk and uncooperative, making me flounder.

Even before my world tips, I know I’m going to fall.

Miraculously though, I don’t.

Instead, I’m plastered against something solid and heated. Something expansive and breathing.

I’m plastered against Mr. Edwards.

“You’re drunk,” he bites out as his fingers dig into the sleeves of my t-shirt.

“I’m not,” I say automatically, staring up at him, my hand catching hold of his shirt at his chest.

Soft, soft fabric hiding hard, sculpted pecs that I’ve seen on summer days when he takes his shirt off and mows the lawn.

“I can smell it on you,” he growls.

“I could be a little tipsy though,” I reply quickly.

His eyes – those gorgeous eyes – narrow.

“But only because it’s my birthday,” I add.

“So you thought taking it out on your liver was a good idea.”

“No. I was just… listening to this song and it made me want a pi?a colada.”

“Unless it’s your twenty-first birthday, which I don’t think it is, you should’ve made it a virgin.”

“I’m eighteen.”

At my blurted-out reply, the muscle on his cheek lunges. It’s not a jump; it’s a tight lunge. His fingers jerk around my arm.

“Definitely a virgin, then,” he says and his voice goes harsh as well.

My teeth find my lower lip and bite it hard.

Virgin.

Yeah, I’m definitely that.

Of course, he didn’t mean it that way. It’s my own dirty, twisted mind.

“And you’re eighteen years older than me. So that makes you thirty-six,” I say needlessly.

“If you’re trying to impress me with your math skills, you should know that it’s useless. Try Mr. Gunderson.”

Mr. Gunderson is our math teacher and one of the few who’s afraid of him. He’d be happy to see me take an interest in the subject but fuck that right now.

Right now, all I care about is him. Mr. Edwards, the football coach, my neighbor and my best friend’s dad.

My crush.

Who just came back from a date.

“What’s useful then?” I ask him. “If I’m trying to impress you?”

What?

What am I saying?

His stomach hollows out on a breath and despite myself, I fight not to close my eyes at how intimate it feels, him breathing against me. His tight, hard abdomen moving against my delicate ribs.

Everything about me feels delicate pressed up against his body, more delicate than the dying roses that are trapped between us.

“Stepping away from me would be a good start,” he grits out in an abraded voice.

He’s right.

I should step away, but I can’t. Not yet.

“I don’t… I don’t make it a habit to sneak into your backyard. I swear to God. And you weren’t supposed to catch me, anyway.”

“What was I supposed to do, then?”

“Not be here. You were supposed to be on a date, right?”

God.

Did I really just ask that?

Did I really just ask that like I have a right to know?

What’s wrong with me? What’s happening to me tonight?

Apparently he’s thinking the same thing, because he draws closer to me; his sharp face, with jutting-out cheekbones and angled jaw and heavy brows, blocks out the stars and his fingers around my arm are probably in the process of leaving marks.

“Who said I was on a date?”

Your clothes. And shoes.

“Because, uh, Brian told me.”

“Brian told you.”

“Uh-huh.” Not a lie technically; he did tell me, but he didn’t mention his dad was going on a date. “Plus, it’s Friday, right? People go on dates on Fridays.”

My explanation isn’t making any difference as far as Mr. Edwards’s anger is concerned. If anything, his features are turning even angrier and harder.

So obviously, I keep talking, “Not that you do. Go on dates, I mean. I don’t mean to imply that you’re a serial dater or a player or anything. Just so I’m clear. In fact, all I’ve ever seen you do is coach football and take care of Brian. Which is amazing, you know. It’s not…” I swallow. “Not every parent takes care of their kid. Brian’s very lucky. You’re a good dad. You really are.”

I totally wasn’t expecting my ramblings to take this turn but now that they have, I can’t deny it. It’s the truth.

He is a good dad.

Brian told me that his mom, Cynthia, left him when he was just a baby. Only a few days old. It was a one-night stand and his mom didn’t want the responsibility so she left Brian with Mr. Edwards and never looked back.

He also told me that Mr. Edwards had a scholarship from a college to play ball but he gave that up when Brian came into the world.